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I see him so often. Maybe I'm the only one who does. I don't really understand it myself. I ride the subway to school, and I always see him in a corner of the train, a book in one hand, a feathered pen in the other. He looks lost, broody even, and barely looks up at the world. People pass by him without a thought; he slides out of their way as if he's floating on the tips of his toes.
He doesn't get off at the same time as me, at least I don't think he does. But I still always see him in the back corner of my homeroom class, in the seat next to the cracked window, that sometimes lets a subtle breeze waft through. I feel the chill. So do my peers. But I don't know if he does. No one ever refers to him though. I thought I would catch his name when the roll was called for the new freshmen, but he never spoke, only stared wistfully through the window.
It's only been a few weeks since I started high school here, but there hasn't been a day he hasn't shown up. He always looks like he's walking without direction when I see him in the hallways. I don't know his schedule; I don't know anything about him really.
The cafeteria is too noisy during lunch, and I bring my lunch from home, so I usually go out into the lawn to eat. That's where I saw him sitting near a tree, writing furtively in the leather notebook he held on the train. He always sits there. Maybe he doesn't like the noise either.
I'll talk to him tomorrow. I’d like to be friends.
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'i died yesterday. i didn't mean to. i didn't know the train schedule changed. but i'm not sure why i didn't move. i saw it coming. i heard it coming. but i didn't bother moving. i mean, i don't think anyone misses me anyways. who'd miss a person who can't even speak? whose voice locks up anytime they're faced with people? i can't even count the amount of times i've wanted to speak, wanted to explain, wanted to care, but just. couldn't.
even my family hated me. hated having a child like me.
i'm not stupid, they'd say, why do i refuse to speak?
it's not like i don't want to speak. i do.
but... every time i tried... it was just so hard.
sometimes i wish someone did miss me though.
or noticed me.
anything.
the saddest part is even though i'm dead, i'm just as invisible as in real life. but what am i expecting? i'm a ghost.
it's not like anyone can see me now.'
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“Hi, I’m Jayden,” I say as I sit down beside him. “What’s your name?”
The boy looks up at me curiously but doesn’t answer the question. He worries his lip a bit, the silver of his piercing glinting as it hugs against his lower lip, jostled by his tongue inside. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then closes it as if he’s changed his mind, scribbling something into his notebook again; it looks like art.
I’m not easily defeated though, so I insist further. “Do you have a name?”
He stops doodling to look up again, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, and nods.
“Well, if you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to find something to call you. Let’s play a little game. I’ll go through the alphabet and you nod if your name starts with the letter.”
He nods at this in agreement and I start. I get all the way to the letter E before he stops the count I was keeping on my fingers, by grabbing my wrist softly. His touch is light, almost difficult to feel. If I couldn’t see his hand wrapping around it, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
He mouths the letter, nothing but air leaving his throat.
He really can’t speak, huh. “E?” I repeat, out loud. “Is that what your name starts with?”
The other gives a soft smile in return, nodding.
“Great, I’ll call you that. E.” I lean into him a bit. “What’re you drawing?”
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'i made a friend today. he’s interesting. his name is jayden. i didn’t expect him to talk to me. in fact, i didn’t know he could see me. most people can’t. he didn’t even seem phased by the fact i couldn’t speak. he’s nice to listen to though. he told me about his day, about the classes he’s having, the homework he has, the stuff he likes to do. he seems to really like my art too. i’m surprised. no one’s ever bothered to look at that stuff. especially not while i was alive. I don’t know why I still keep this journal. After all, i’m dead. there’s no purpose, really, but it does give me something to do. my family doesn’t know i’m still here. not that they talk about me. the door to my room is never opened, even though i return every night. they probably think I’m in a better place or something. what a joke. i’m still on earth, and earth is still no better. but maybe it’s not all bad.’
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E's hair is black, parted in a long fringe that shields one of his eyes from view. His hair is a definite contrast from my own, curly and closely cropped to my skull, dyed a simple faded dark brown. The eye I'm able to see, the eye that sometimes looks up at me, is a deep amber brown, like warm honey, and sometimes I catch myself staring. It’s a pretty color. When he sketches designs into his notebook, sometimes I’m close enough that I can notice the small beauty mark that accents the side of his nose bridge, slim and defined. His features are distinctive; his lips have a fairly prominent cupid's bow, jutting out in a slight pout often as he thinks, his lower lip a bit fuller, adorned with a piercing on the left side of it, multiple matching ones in his ears. He's very different from me, quiet and an artist, but for some reason, that just makes me want to know him more. He's always writing or drawing in this journal of his; it's simple and black and I know in the corner of the inside, it has his name etched into it. I asked if he had his name written down somewhere before and he was about to show me, but he covered it with his hand before I got a chance. He seemed a bit scared to show me. I don’t really know why. It’s just a name. Does he not want me to know who he is?
I want to know why no one refers to him. I want to know who he really is. But I suppose it might take some time for him to get comfortable to do so. That’s okay. I’m patient. I’ll wait until he’s ready to share it with me. Even though he doesn’t talk, I know he likes my company; I live in anticipation of his expressions, of the rare chance he emits a breathless laugh from something I’ve said, the gentle smiles he shows when I compliment his drawings, the seriousness in his concentration when he’s helping me with homework. I want to know him.
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'i almost showed jayden my name today. but for some reason, i stopped myself. i felt strange about it. he’s my first friend. some part of me doesn’t want to just show him my name. i want to say it. i want to say it so bad, and i don’t know if I can. my throat is still tight just thinking about speaking it. but i want to.’
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There's a strange glow around him, almost dusty, as he gives me his name through a hoarse breath, “Erin,” but I’m too excited about the new information to think about it much. The bell rings for class to start, and I tell him that I’ll see him later, a big grin on my face, incredibly pleased with the development. He nods, his face as unaffected as usual, before he starts to write hurriedly in his notebook, the pace a bit unusual. I'm walking away now, but I can't stop looking back, noticing as he drops his pen, and places the book near the tree, and leans his head against it, almost as if he had exhausted all his energy by writing. He notices me still standing by the door to the school, and he gives me a soft smile, almost sad in nature, and I can't even return it in full, confused as I am, as he slowly fades away, taken by a sudden cool breeze.
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'i’m doing it today. but i have a feeling that when I do, i won’t be able to stick around much longer. i’ve been here for so long that i’m not sure what it’s going to be like to pass on, but maybe it’ll be peaceful. at the very least, i won’t have any regrets anymore.’
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“Erin?” my teacher questions, when I mention the name to her. “I don’t know a student under that name.” I don’t understand. He’s in my homeroom, and today he’s missing. Ever since he told me his name, I haven’t seen him, not even on the train.
“Yes, Erin. He’s in this class every day.” I point to the seat in the back. “He sits over there. Near the broken window.”
“Sweetheart, nobody sits there. The chair is broken. If anyone sat in it, it would collapse, that’s why we haven’t assigned anyone to sit there in three years…” She looks a bit wistful, and her eyebrows furrow in what seems to be realization.
“Three years?” I ask.
She sighs as though she doesn’t want to talk about the subject. “That’s when… a student died…” she admits. What does she mean? A student died?
“Who?” It can’t be Erin. It can’t be. Because that would mean…
“Let me check the old rosters.” She pulls a stack of papers from her desk, and leafs through the pages before stopping short on a name. “Erin Dunn…”
I freeze, a shiver running up my spine.
She looks up at me, eyes riddled with worry. “How do you know his name?”
Have I been talking to a ghost? “How did he die?” I blurt out, avoiding the question.
“Subway accident, I think,” she answers, removing her glasses and massaging at her temples. “Very tragic, really. But most people didn’t know him too well. He didn’t speak much.”
I grit my teeth, hit with a wave of gloom. He’s gone. He’s always been gone. I even felt like we were making progress too. Why didn’t I realize it earlier? Why no one seemed to see him other than me? Why he seemed so unnoticeable?
I’m not even listening to my teacher anymore. The break is ending soon. I rush outside to the tree where he disappeared yesterday and look around. There’s nothing left of him, but at the base of the tree where I look down, his notebook is left, with the feathered pen he always used to write and sketch with. I pick it up, and thumb gently at the leather cover, wistful as I open it and see his name “Erin Dunn” etched into the front cover in his handwriting.
I skim through the pages; it’s full of entries dating from years ago, from before his death, but there’s a specific page dog-eared as if it was left for me to look at. I turn to it and read the note. The writing is a bit messy; this must have been what he was scribbling down.
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'i didn't let you see my name, because i wanted to tell you it first. thank you for noticing me. i’m glad we got to be friends, even if it was for a short time. i only wish i wasn't a ghost in real life too.'
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The confirmation leaves me weak in the knees, and I slide down the trunk of the tree to sit in his old spot, distraught with grief. He left this note for me. It’s really all too much and I only add fire to the wounds by turning to the first page and reading through the entries from the beginning. Each page just increases the sadness and loss I’m experiencing, and I don’t even realize that I’ve started to cry until my cheeks are wet enough that the tears fall onto the book.
I miss him.